


Turnabout

by Ack_Emma



Series: The Great Woods and the Ineffable Colony [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale has the braincell today, Cooking, F/M, Gardening, Puritan New England, Puritan culture, Puritan social expectations, Wood Chopping, behold my shoddy historical research, life at a Puritan parsonage, strategic intelligence gathering, took me all night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28278996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ack_Emma/pseuds/Ack_Emma
Summary: Day-to-day life is pretty good when you’re an angel posing as a Puritan minister.Getting to observe that day-to-day life is pretty good, too.-----Sequel to The Farming Collective (part one of this series).  This fic follows and references events that happened in that earlier story.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Great Woods and the Ineffable Colony [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071503
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	Turnabout

Reverend Fell was a bit odd, the villagers thought, but he was their minister and the position commanded their respect.

Also, every time they tentatively questioned him, they could never seem to find fault in his words and ways.

The Puritans were used to their ministers devoting much time to religious study, and though Reverend Fell had many books, he did not seem to strictly focus on the same works or topics as other ministers they’d known. Nevertheless, his knowledge of the Bible was encyclopedic and he appeared to be fluent in ancient Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. 

Any villager or fellow clergy could strike up a conversation with him over classical texts and lose all remaining daylight to discussing a literary or religious work, multiple adjacent texts, a half-dozen interpretations of each major passage, and the theological and moral implications thereof. So while Reverend Fell’s devotion to religious study was light, his stature as a scholar and thinker was peerless in the colony.

Reverend Fell also did not seem to pray much. Certainly, he would lead the congregation in prayer during services but he was never seen to do much more than this. Yet he always seemed fully secure in the godliness of his life and his status as one of God’s elect. He bore himself with absolute certainty of his entry into heaven.

Perhaps that certainty came from the strength of his connection to God? Reverend Fell revealed that God had actually spoken to him! Mayhap God had given particular knowledge to Reverend Fell because whenever a potential wife was presented to him he praised her good qualities then revealed the name of an unmarried man in the village the woman was already in love with. More than one woman wept internally with gratitude and relief as the minister enumerated all the virtues of her secretly-hoped-for union. The marriages that followed were always prosperous and happy, and over time Reverend Fell was held in very high opinion among the goodwives of the village. They staunchly defended him when their husbands grumbled about the odd minister and the women took turns dropping off “extra” baking at the parsonage.

With no wife, less-than-laborious religious study, and little prayer, Reverend Fell spent a fair bit of his time tending his household. Which is what he was doing today, when Crowley slunk into the nearby shadows to spy on him.

They hadn’t spoken or seen each other, since the Witches’ Sabbath. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale was angry with her, if she’d unknowingly interfered with his assignment by lightly tempting and tormenting the young adults of this colony. She hoped she could secretly assess the angel’s general situation and attitude, to see if a social call would be welcome.

Peeking through the windows, Crowley could see Aziraphale crouched by the hearth, stirring a large pot. The fire was small but nevertheless cast a warm glow over Aziraphale’s face and hands, and gave the scene a cozy, inviting air. Aziraphale carefully tasted the porridge in the pot, closing his eyes, humming and smiling in approval. Crowley kept her breathing slow and even as Aziraphale ladled himself a large helping and savoured each bite with increasingly vocal enjoyment.

Mealtime eventually ended and the angel emerged from the parsonage to do outside chores. Crowley slithered behind the fence, peeking over it and gritting her teeth as Aziraphale puttered around his vegetable garden, exclaiming excitedly at the growth of his carrot plants. The foliage was too dense and had obviously been thinned far too leniently. Aziraphale stopped by every row of carrots to speak kindly and encouragingly to the orange crowns, which looked abnormally robust given the angel’s poor gardening skills. He tenderly watered the parsley and smiled widely as he brushed lingering fingers through the lettuce leaves. Crowley’s gaze followed those gentle hands, noticed the vivid green of the plants reflected in twinkling eyes.

Crowley tracked Aziraphale as he then rounded the property to the chopping block in the back. Entirely hidden by the fence and peering through a crack, Crowley’s eyes bled to full gold when Aziraphale removed his doublet and doublet interior, then effortlessly carried a three-foot round of oak to the block. Aziraphale planted his feet and his thighs flexed in his breeches as he lifted the splitting maul high. There was a moment of stillness, then the angel began to relentlessly and methodically chop, soft grunts and short exhalations mixing with the crack of splitting wood. Crowley was mesmerized by the rhythmic bulge of those strong arms, the repetitive twisting of hips and torso. Perspiration gathered as Aziraphale worked, curling the hair by his ears and neck even as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

Sweaty, Aziraphale set the maul down. Turning to stare directly at the spot where Crowley was hiding, Aziraphale slowly and deliberately unknotted the braided ties of his linen shirt. He maintained unblinking eye contact as he opened a low and wide-V to reveal a generous expanse of his glistening chest. Then he waited, challengingly.

Lacking a single, better idea, Crowley opted to panic, panicfully. She reckoned that was a valid response, even if no one could hear her internal screaming.

Aziraphale held the provocation for a moment longer, then with a tiny quirk of his mouth he returned to his wood chopping until the entire round had been split.

Leaning on the lowered maul, he said to the open air, “are you going to continue trying to unhinge your jaw in this form, or would you like to come in and try some of the beer I’ve been brewing?”

Even as she made non-word sounds of indecision, Crowley emerged from behind the fence, more flushed and out-of-breath than her adversary. She fought briefly with the gate before gaining entry, snapping her fingers behind her back to transport a basket of fruit onto her arm.

“Hello, Aziraphale!” Crowley tried to recover. “Brought you some fruit from my farming collective.”

“Mm-hmm,” Aziraphale smiled amusedly at her then admired the selection of pears and quinces. “Really, my dear, not a single apple?”

In spite of herself, Crowley threw her head back and barked a sharp laugh. Aziraphale reached the parsonage door and held his arm out to let her enter first.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure who's the better tease. 😘


End file.
